by Kassandra Lamb
Gardening has never really been my thing. I don’t have a black thumb per se, more of a brown one. I unintentionally torture plants for a while, before they finally expire.
So I laughed out loud for several minutes when I read this delightful blog post by Barb Taub. I had to share it with you all.
by Barb Taub
I had a college roommate who talked to her plants. Her side of our dorm room was filled with overachieving explosions of green. My side had an ever-revolving range of plants in my two little pots, doomed visitors who would linger bravely for a week or two before wanly accepting their fate.
This wasn’t really a problem over the next four decades. With jobs, kids, and a husband who likes to mow large swaths of lawn, my black thumb couldn’t do too much damage. Then I blew it. I moved to the UK, where gardening is a sacred passion.*
(*I’m totally not imagining this. Recent UK census and surveys show that almost 60% of people spent time gardening within the previous month, but only 12% attended religious services.)
When we bought our house on a wee isle in Scotland, it came with an absolutely wonderful gardener who kept the jungle from closing in. Sadly, he told us he was retiring and the garden was all down to us now. This wouldn’t be a particular issue, except for our neighbors. Downhill below us is one of the most spectacular gardens I’ve ever seen, kept immaculately and with such a flair for color and casual design that you could charge admission. Uphill above us is a cottage with a hedge so flawlessly straight I’m completely convinced our neighbor Peter manicures it with a surgically-sharp but very tiny pair of scissors.
And between these two lovely gardens, there’s… us. After two years without anyone who knows what they’re doing, our garden would be an excellent understudy for the next Tarzan film. When guests go for a stroll, I feel the odd machete would not be amiss.
So the Hub bought me a scary pair of enormous loppers, and I told the dog I was going in. At first it was almost fun. Without a clue what I was doing, I started to hack a path from the greenhouse. Then somehow I was holding my jaw and listening to a peculiar whining noise. Oh, wait… it was me moaning, and my cupped hand was filling with blood from my nose and split lip. When things stopped spinning, I slowly pieced together that the branch I was lopping had released the other branch it had been holding back, sending it on a flying assault to my face.
(The real attempt on Barb’s life is yet to happen. Read about it HERE. I’ll give you a hint: below is the alleged murder weapon.)
My garden’s attempt to do me in was perpetrated by a bag of mulch. More on that in a later blog post. But I do have to admit that something good came out of it.
While I was laid up recuperating from my garden’s assault, I finally finished the first draft of Multiple Motives, which would become my first published book!
How about you? Are you a green thumb, or a brown or black one? Has your garden ever tried to retaliate and kill you?
Posted by Kassandra Lamb. Kassandra is a retired psychotherapist turned mystery writer. She is the author of the Kate Huntington psychological mysteries, set in her native Maryland, and the cozy series, the Marcia Banks and Buddy mysteries, set in Central Florida.
We blog here at misterio press about twice a month, usually on Tuesdays. Sometimes we talk about serious topics, and sometimes we just have some fun.
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